THE NIGHT CABBY.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 2904, 29 September 1900, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE NIGHT CABBY.

(JlfdWioume Arqus.) A study of the cabman who does duty in the Melbourne streets after midnight is a study in pessimism. The same remark applies if the examination bo extended to his horse. There are none of the jaunty, witty, jjppudent Irish car-drivers here. There arc plenty of Irishmen, but all the cheerful ones must have stayed in their native haunts. These men. all take gloomy views of life. If you give them what they ask they are miserable because they did not ask more. If you beat them down they carry an air of protest for the whole journey, and end up with a piteous appeal at its close. It is not alleged that they have any tiling to make them cheerful. They have to spend 1 many hours waiting in the cold and the wet for the fare that perhaps never comes at all, and the living they do make must be a mere existence. Good humour, spnghtlmess, wit are not to be expected at the price. “ Why don’t you say it like this?” roared Macready to a super as he spoke his few lines for him.

“ If I could say it like that, sir, I wouldn’t be working for 10s a week.” “Is that all you get. Then say it as you like.”

A man who drives a night cab in Melbourne is entitled to be as dull and donr and miserable as he pleases. Still one would imagine that a little cheerfulness and sprightliness would pay. Take the case of the Irish carman, who heard a conversation in French between the Chevalier do Kontski. the famous pianist, and his agent. “I know what you are saying, s;r, ’ he said. “I speak Frinch.” “What did I sav?” “ Sure ye’re honour said, ‘ Don’t give poor cabby less than 4s on this miserable, wet day.’’’ And he got it. Equally successful 'was the carman who, in answer to a word of condolence from his fare, vho had just arrived at his home, said, “Aot at all, your honour ; I’m only wet to the skin now, but, plaze goodness, I’ll be wet inside as soon as your honour can get out the sperrets.” One might spend a lifetime amongst the eabtuen of Melbourne without hearing any sallies like these. The doleful "horses and the doleful men come out at nights. The horses have nearly all seen better days ; the men have not. Broken-down lords and swells don’t gravitate on to the ranks in Melbourne. Uninviting as the occupation is, the man seems to fit it exactly. He is not given to conversation. Even a remark about his horse often fails to elicit more than a grunt, for the animal is usually hired with the vehicle for the night, and the driver has no proprietary pleasure in him. But a recent conversation ran something in this strain. “ Miserable night, cabby?” “ Bad enough ; but, lor, we’re gettin’ used to this sort of thing now. I dunno wots come over the weather lately. It didu t use to be like this.” •

“ Business good?” “Looks like it, don’t it, and me takin’ you ail 'this way fox three bob. I dunno wots come over the rank lately. Ther s fellers come on as ’ll take anything as is offered.” “I suppose you used to get better prices?” “ I should think so. Why, I've seen the time when, if you’d a’ come to me with your three bob I wudn’t a looked at yer. Six bob is the regler price for this journey in the day time.” “ I suppose you get a stroke c.f luck sometimes.”

“ Not often. Why, there was Iky Moses, the bookmaker. I used to get half a suv out uf him regler two or three times a. week. He used to know me, and called me out of the rank, but now I’m blest if he ain’t taken to ketch-in’ his last train. I see him walkin' past there along o.f ’is pals, and never givin’ me a thought, as has took him home so often, and seen him safe inside his front door.” “ But, surely everybody hasn’t turned good on you like that?” “O, I dunno wot things is cornin’ (to. I used to have a bit of luck sometimes when I druv a hansom; more partie’ler at the clubs, when times was good. There was one old gent, you know him well enough I expect, Old Blank. He’s rich as they make uni. He used to stop at the club till three or four in die roomin', and if he’d had a good night at cards he’d give me a suv’rin’ to take him home. Other times he’d cut me down to. fifteen bob. One night, I mind, the old beggar was there, and I refused one or two small jobs pos I was waitin’ for him. Well, he stayed orful late, an’ it was beginnin’ to get daylight when he came out. ‘ Ori right,'sir,’ ‘Here ye’ are,’ ‘Keb, sir,’ I says. Well, he looks at his watch, an’ he says, ‘ Hullo,’ he says, ‘ why, it’s five o’clock, and there’ll be a train in an. hour. It’ll pay me better to wait.’ and I’m blest if he didn’t go back into the chib. That Mas beastly luck, Hasn’t it, and me waitin all night ? But the ’all porter told mo afterwards, as he started playin’ again, and lost fifty quid in that hour, an’ he .card him say ‘ Damn it, all, I wish I hadn’t saved the sovereign from the cabby.’ But lie wasu t a bad old bloke, takin’ hini all round. They’s many wuss than him knockin about.” “He never offered you three bob?” " Not, him, he wasn’t so mean as that. Not as how I won’t say as there’s wuss than you. I mind one time there was a bloke with a big overcoat on, with fhe collar turned up, so as I didn’t see mor’n his eyes. ‘ Here,’ lie says, ‘ Kebby,’ ho says, ‘ drive me out to North Iritzroy,’ he says. ‘lt’ll be icn bob, sir,’ I says, for it was getting on for three o’clock in the mornin’. Orl right,’ lie says, ‘an’ get a move on that old moke o’ yoiiru.’ Well, I drove him out pretty smart, and he stops me in a pretty quiet place, where there wasn’t a soul about. I never suspected nothin’, of course, an’ he puts up his hand. ‘Here’s your fare,’ lie says. I reached down to get it, and he grabbed me by the band an’ pulls me off the seat on to my bloomin’ ’ed on the metal. When I comes to myself (lie ole horso was .standing there, with the keb, but that feller was gone, an’ sted of leavin’ me his fare, he'd cleaned me out. I’d had a bit of luck on a pony race, and had a couple of quid in my pocket, and lie nabbed the lot. (I was glad to hear that there were, some worse than 1.) This nine ain’t good c-Ualll-h lor me, 1 says, so I sells me keb, and I has a spell of dry hlowiti’ in (lie West, but I soon chucks that up. Too bloomin’ much bard graft, ami too little to get. and so here I am back on the old rank again.” “ Good-night, cabby."

“ Here, sir, iipoii mo lilorlinin' word, vmi know yon might make it four ‘>ob. S’olp me, sir. it, ain't n. fair'thing, an' vnu know it yourself. Yon won’t '! Three 1ml)! Dusked if 1 kimw wot (lie. bloomin' rank’s a cornin'